


letters between continents

by aliaaaaaa



Category: Band of Brothers, The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Homophobic Language, I Am Not Sorry For The Feel, Letters, M/M, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, SOFT FEELS MAN, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-28 07:30:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7630795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliaaaaaa/pseuds/aliaaaaaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shelton and Roe sharing their worries, anxieties, hopes, and dreams in a series of letters throughout the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	letters between continents

**Author's Note:**

> I am insanely proud of this story because it's my first Sledgefu story ever and the idea of "What if Roe and Snafu are actually friends and they keep writing to each other through out the war?" kept bugging me so I've decided to write this and it took me about a week or so with lots of anxiety issues over characterizations and story lines. 
> 
> This has been beta-read by [Gigi](pbabe-heffron.tumblr.com) & [Alison](captain--trash.tumblr.com) helped too by reading the rough draft and giving out ideas and actually flailing over it. And special shoutout to [Yslana](generoes.tumblr.com), [Ellie](hufflepuffdiggory.tumblr.com) & Henrieta for putting up with me and my need to be reassured that my writing don't suck.

**September, 1941**

Every two months or so a letter would arrive from Louisiana to San Diego addressed to _Merriell Shelton_.

His parents –through his sister– asking him about his well-being and his training. In the letter, they would tell him about what’s happening in their parish, about so and so’s son getting ready to join the Army, to join the Air Force, to join the Marines. They would tell him how all of these young men were eager to leave their small hometown to see the world and fight the enemy. Sometimes he could sense his Pop’s disgruntlement due to him leaving home because now he had to pull all the weight to find money for the family.

The letter never ended with the phrase “ _Love_ ,” unlike what he had heard from Burgie’s letters.

But at the end of his letter –without fail– his Moman would tell him to take care of himself and to always follow his superior’s orders and to not gamble too much.

For him that was love enough.

When it was time for him to receive his bi-monthly letter from home, he was surprised when De L’eau had given him two envelopes instead of one.

“What’s this?” He had asked, drawling the word out and waving the other envelope in front of Jay’s face.

“Your letter,” the man had replied, smiling before he continued to hand out the mail.

He scrutinized at the brown envelope and frowned at the neat block handwriting. He flipped it to look at the return address.

 _Eugene Roe,  
92 Camp Toccoa Rd, Toccoa, GA_.

Roe.

He remembered pale-faced Eugene Roe who lived just two blocks down from his house. He remembered Roe’s dark hair and even darker eyes that sometimes flashed dangerously his way when he opened his mouth to say something stupid.

The last time they had met was when they gathered in the church hall, the military personnels were there to recruit the young men of New Orleans to join the war with the promise of 50 dollars per month.

He had already made up his mind to join the Marines. He knew how hard the training was and he wanted to be the best. But beside him, this pale Cajun had contemplated a bit too long, studying the list with a deep frown on his face.

“The answer to your question ain’t gonna come to you any time soon,” he had drawled, lighting up a cigarette despite being in a church.

Roe had glanced at him then, made a disapproving sound with his tongue when he saw the smoke curling lazily from his lips.

“We are in a church. Show some respect,” Roe chided and Shelton grinned before he blew the smoke on Roe’s rapidly reddening face.

“We are in the goddamn church about to sign up to be in the military to kill people, Eugene. I think Jesus won’t mind me a lil smoke.”

Roe narrowed his eyes and the firm lines around his mouth appeared and something in Shelton’s chest tugged loose.

With a heavy sigh, Shelton stubbed the still burning cigarette out on the leg of the chair and looked at Roe haughtily. “Happy now, princess?”

Roe only rolled his eyes and focused on the list in his hand again.

“Why don’t you just sign up to be a Marine?” Shelton asked, genuinely curious about how Roe’s mind worked. Every man that he met in this town was ready to sign up to be a Marine but Roe always kept quiet when the talk of the war came up.

“Not fond of the ocean,” Roe answered simply, nodding his head like he had made his decision.

Shelton looked at Roe then, really looked at Roe and tried very hard to understand this soft-spoken man.

“Yeah? How about jumping out from the airplane? You scared of that too, boo?”

Roe turned his face to look at Shelton, smiling like he was dealing with a petulant child instead of a 17 year-old teenager about to sell his life to be killed in a war.

“Never been on an airplane before. Can’t be that bad though, right? If I jump, my brain will blow instantly on the ground,” Roe grinned at the bewildered look on Shelton’s face. “Now if I drown in the ocean, it will take a lot of time for me to die. Want my death to be instant.”

Shelton’s mouth had fallen down in a fraction, surprised with how easy Roe thought about death and how he wanted it to be swift.

“You’re one crazy Cajun,” Shelton breathed out softly.

“Takes one to know one,” Roe quipped back easily. “Plus I got paid extra 50 bucks if I join the paratroopers,” Roe winked at him and a slow smile spread on Shelton’s face as he looked at Roe with his wide eyes, something akin to awe etched on his expression because Shelton of all people understood the need for extra money in his pocket.

“Whatchu got there, Shelton?”

Burgie’s voice pulled him out of his memory and he grinned before answering, “A letter from an old friend.”

*

**October, 1942**

Roe’s letters kept coming even though he never replied to any of them.

It wasn’t because he lacked the vocabulary, hell he went to school enough years to read and write and count until he had to drop out when he turned 13 to help out with the bills.

He just didn’t know what to write to Roe.

It felt strangely personal to write about his own grueling training in Camp Elliott. How he was picked to be in the mortar squad with Burgin who he now thought of as his older brother because Burgie would always make sure he stayed in line and out of trouble. He didn’t wanna talk about how the skin of his palms had started to peel when he was handling the mortar cartridges. How his sergeant shouted at him more often than the others and called him stupid whenever he misfired his target. How he gambled more now when he got his weekend passes because pocketing the extra money actually made him feel like he was doing something worthwhile with his life.

Because of that he didn’t write back because he didn’t want Roe to know how maybe he was having a second thought about joining the marines. How in the middle of the night, when everyone was fast asleep, he was still awake thinking of ways for him to die.

But he kept the letters safely in his foot locker, folded them in between his shirts and pants. When he was sick of his training and the guard and sentry duties and the foolish men in his company, he would sit on his cot and quietly unfold Roe’s letters one by one.

In each letter he would faintly catch a whiff of iodine and rifle oil, something sharp that made his nose twitch like he was about to sneeze but the tickling feeling was gone too soon, leaving him feeling dissatisfied. He would study these letters and notice the faint press of Roe’s fingers on the thin paper.

In his letters, Roe wrote about his life in Toccoa; the hot and humid weather that reminded him of home. He talked about the grueling training he had to endure; Currahee and the 3 miles up and 3 miles down whenever his CO saw it fit. He wrote about the 12 miles march every Friday nights when all of the other companies were already asleep.

_Our CO is a bit of an orthodox man with a very modern approach on how to get all of us in shape for the war. Can’t blame him. Half of us are lazy as they come and they think that being in this camp means they can get too big-headed when they go out to town to woo the girls._

_They don’t even understand that they signed up their lives to kill or be killed._

He could imagine Roe’s pale complexion turned red under the blazing sun as he climbed the hill, he could see Roe squinting his eyes at the lazy boys in his company, biting down his lips to stop himself from chiding them because it would do no good to start a fight and be casted off when he was already alone in that camp. He could feel Roe’s exhaustion bleeding out between the thin paper unto his fingers.

Sometimes Roe talked about the good men in his company. How even though he didn’t actively sought out their friendships, some of these men always include him in their activities.

_These men are good men. Boisterous but still good and they want to be the best in the war. They call me “Doc” since I was chosen to train as a medic. It’s strange to be called Doc when I don’t have any experience in healing people unlike my grandmère._

He remembered Roe’s grandmère, a small petite woman with withering hands that lived on the edge of the swamp. He had visited her once with his Moman when he was beginning to roam the streets alone and get into more fights than he should. Roe’s grandmère had looked at him then, tutted her tongue before she placed her withered hand on his swollen left eye. He remembered warmness unlike any other seeped into his skin, traveled in his veins as the old lady murmured prayers with his name mingled in the hushed voice and he could feel the sting in his eye start to lessen and light started to penetrate the swollen lid, making everything bright again.

When he was about to thank her for healing him, Roe’s grandmère gently glided her palm from his eye, to his cheek, down the column of his neck and placed it firmly on his chest and murmured another prayer.

_O Lord! Grant this child peace in his heart and in his mind and let him be free from any heartache. Only you can grant this prayer, my Lord. Only you. Only you._

He took a deep breath, placed his peeling palm over his heart and felt the steady thumping against his ribcage. Maybe because he wasn’t a firm believer, maybe because he was always skeptical with the idea of some higher being planning his shitty life; he knew that whatever prayers Roe’s grandmère had recited didn’t have any effect on him because he had forgotten what it felt like to be at peace in his own skin. He was always ready to get into trouble; always ready to throw insults to anyone available just because he could. His loud mouth running freely as he caused mayhem wherever he went.

But in this moment, with his bone-tired body ready to keel over, where he was alone with Roe’s letters scattered all over his cot, with the weak smell of rifle oil and iodine wrapped around him, where he could see Roe’s neat handwriting telling him to _“Always take care of yourself, Merriell. Don’t get yourself into too much trouble”_ , he felt a sense of calm pervading him as the prayers tumbled out from his mouth again and again.

*

**August, 1943**

“Writing a letter home?”

He looked up to see Burgie walking to him, carrying two cups of coffee and a ready smile on his face.

“Naw, writing to an old friend. He got his jump wings last month,” he replied, tapping his pencil against the tabletop as he thought what else should he write. So far, he only managed;

_Roe,_

_Congrats on your jump wings_.

“He a paratrooper?” Burgie asked, lighting up two cigarettes and offering one to him.

“Uh huh,” he answered, watching the smoke as it curled lazily in front of him. “He trained in Georgia. Fool is ready to blow his brain to the ground ‘cos military pays him extra 50 bucks.” He grinned, remembering the day at the church that felt a lifetime ago which was true because it had been two years and Roe was still sending him letters every two months or so.

He looked back to his still empty paper and bit the inside of his lips;

_You don’t have to worry ‘bout your brain blowing on the ground, boo ‘cause you’re a certified paratrooper now. The airborne gives you a chute so use it well._

He hesitated, the tip of the pencil pressing hard on the thin paper. Should he end his short letter like this? Maybe he should apologize for never replying to all of Roe’s previous letters? Maybe he should tell Roe that he’s about done with his training too and that there were rumours about them being shipped to the Pacific?

He bit his lip and wrote,

_Take care of yourself, Eugene._

_Semper Fi.  
– Merriell Shelton._

*

**December, 1943.**

Cape Gloucester was a place even meaner than the deep bayou of Louisiana. Where that place was flowing with old magic and deep murky water, this tropic rain forest was filled with death and the river was an overflowing rivulet of human blood.

The first time he arrived in Gloucester –quietly following behind Burgie and De L'eau, watching Skipper and Hillbilly guiding them into the thick forest, carrying the mortar launcher on his shoulders– he saw a naked man lying on the thick moss of the forest ground. His head was severed from his neck.

He had looked away then but not fast enough that the image of the body with no head kept following him even in his dreams, howling for him to help find his missing head.

Now, everywhere he went with the other marines during their daily patrols, he would stumble upon more dead bodies in the state so grotesque that he didn’t want to close his eyes anymore, fearing that the images would stay etched behind his eyelids forever.

And in the middle of all of this gore and blood and rainwater and diseases, his mind would be thinking about Roe. Whether he would see the pale Cajun jumping into this very forest, his chute caught and tangled on the thick branches of the thousand years old trees, shouting his name and asking for help. And in this scenario, he would be laughing at Roe, teasing him about being an incompetent paratrooper before helping him down, because Roe was glaring at him, his face turning red and his eyes were dark with annoyance. And in this scenario, he would look at Roe, finally a familiar face in the middle of the unfamiliar place, and he would clap Roe’s back slightly and told him, “‘M glad you’re here, Eugene.”

But Skipper had told them that there was another war at the other side of the world, continents away from where they were and he couldn’t help but feel worried about Roe.

He couldn’t help but hope that wherever Roe jumped into, he wouldn’t have to experience the kind of gore that he had to see everyday in this godforsaken island. He couldn’t help but pray even though he wasn’t a staunch believer, he couldn’t help but pray that whatever Roe saw in the war, he wouldn’t be stripped of his humanity, that his soul wouldn’t be ripped apart like him.

Because he felt it now, felt it everyday for every mutilated body he saw on the ground, for every bullet flying past him, for every fallen comrade, for every nightmare he was having; he could feel he was being stripped of his humanity piece by piece. That he was becoming more and more like a killing machine with no remorse and no sympathy in his heart.

It didn’t help that his morale was being stretched too far like a rubber band because in this _goddamn_ island, he had to do everything, _anything_ just to stay alive. It didn’t do his morale any good when some of the veterans from Guadalcanal had no qualms about driving their sharp KA-BAR into the Japs’ mouth, picking gold teeth with the tip of the knife, grinning widely as they told him that, “Gold is 30 bucks per ounce, boy. Gotta stock ‘em and sell ‘em later.”

It didn’t help that he had this hatred festering inside him, the kind that throbbed with anger whenever the Japs were shooting at him, adamant to kill even when they were outnumbered by the marines.

He was becoming more and more agitated that he had taken to fighting with his fellow marines, slurring insults in their faces because picking fights with them was the only thing to keep him sane, to distract him so he wouldn’t think about the rain and the mutilated bodies and how he would die soon.

“You need to stop fighting with everyone, Shelton,” Burgie had said to him one day, when Kenny landed a square punch on his jaw for making lewd remarks about his wife. “You’re just one big snafu waiting to happen.”

Snafu. Situation Normal All Fucked Up. Just like what he felt. And somehow, that name stuck with him. And somehow he lived up to the name when took his sharp KA-BAR and drove the blade inside the dead Nip’s mouth and picked the three gleaming gold teeth out and kept them in an empty tobacco tin, grinning serenely when Burgie shook his head at him.

*

**May, 1944.**

There was a letter waiting for him when they arrived in Pavuvu.

He carried the letter in his pocket for several days, reasoned with himself that he had a lot of work to do around the island, mainly to throw away the rotten coconuts and to kill the rats and crabs infesting the camp.

It had nothing to do with how Roe’s block handwriting spelling out _Merriell Shelton_ on the envelope made him feel guilty.

He didn’t have any reason to feel guilty.

Except–

–When he thought of Roe and his dark eyes and his smooth voice, he was reminded how he was once closer to being a human than a killing machine. When he thought of Roe and his parting words of _Always take care of yourself, Merriell. Don’t get yourself into too much trouble_ in every letters, he felt guilty because not only he got himself in too much trouble, he was now _a snafu_.

But he couldn’t ignore the heavy weight of the envelope forever.

By the end of the fifth night he was in Pavuvu –when Burgie and De L'eau were already asleep– he unfolded Roe’s letter gently as if he was handling something precious and something in his chest tugged hard when he inhaled the sharp smell of rifle oil and iodine again.

Then he read.

_Merriell,_

_I hope this letter arrives to you safely and wherever you’re right now while you’re reading this, I hope God is looking after you._

_I’m sorry I didn’t write to you sooner. We’ve been busy preparing to being shipped out from the States. At that time we didn’t know where we were headed and truthfully, I was hoping to be at the Pacific so that I could see you again. But the men at the shipyard told us that you marines have been deployed months ago before we came and I couldn’t help but feeling sorry I didn’t get to see you go._

_We are in Aldbourne, England now, training our hardest in the rain and cold wind to fight against the Germans. I don’t know much about the Pacific but I heard it is somewhat like South Louisiana only with more green leaves. I hope the weather there is treating you well._

At that, he smiled sardonically, remembering the tropical rain back in Cape Gloucester and how the water had seeped through his very white bones that he swore he would never be dried again. 

_Merriell, would you laugh and tease me if I tell you that I’m afraid something will go wrong with my chute when it’s time for me to jump out from the airplane? That I will miss the action because I never land at the designated spot?_

_These are the thoughts that keep me awake most nights. I know I should have faith in whatever God has planned for me but I couldn’t help but be afraid that something will go wrong._

_Ah, you must be thinking that I’m stupid to worry about this. I can already see your teasing smile and hear your teasing voice inside my head._

_I hope these thoughts won’t come true._

_I don’t know when we will jump to fight the enemies and I don’t know if I will survive the jump. If you don’t hear from me in 6 months or so, it means I no longer exist in this world._

_Take care of yourself always. I know you’re one tough marine._

_Hang tough,_  
_– Eugene Roe._

He put the letter down and looked outside of the tent. From where he was half-sitting, he could hear the sound of the waves gently lapping against each other; as if they were being too impatient to get to the shore only to end up colliding and dissolving back into the sea.

His chest felt like that.

Too many emotions wanting to come forth, eager to make him feel something, only for him to harden his heart and ignore each and every one of them. What was left of his humanity wouldn’t allow him to wallow in Roe’s flippant way of accepting his impending death. They were in a war after all, where they could die at any moment and like Roe, he had expected and accepted this fact back when he was being rained on in Cape Gloucester.

But still.

There was a small part of him that wanted to scribble out a reply to Roe. To tell him that it wasn’t stupid to feel all of those things because he was scared too. Every moment that he was breathing, he was scared that it would be his last time.

Most of all, he wanted to tell Roe to quit talking about his death so casually because it made something in his chest twist. Because for him, someone like Roe deserved to live his life until he was old. Because for him, God would never abandon Roe in time of need.

But he folded the letter neatly and placed it inside his tobacco tin where the rattling of Nips’ gold teeth could be heard.

He laid down on his scratchy cot with his palm over his heart and willed himself to sleep.

*

**October, 1944.**

_Roe,_

_You ever seen something so shiny that you want to steal it and take it home and keep it forever with you?_

He glanced up from his writing to watch Sledge napping on his cot; something lurched pleasantly inside his belly when Sledge opened his mouth in a pout to snore softly.

He didn’t know how it happened, He didn’t know how it came to be for him, Snafu Shelton to start having _feelings_ for Eugene Sledge.

But he knew it happened back in Peleliu, a place that put hell to shame with the sun blazing down on him, burning the back of his neck and making his throat felt like he had swallowed sand and corals. He had thought maybe someone up there was playing a cruel joke on him for always bitching about the fucking rain back in Cape Gloucester because they didn’t even have even a single drop of water to drink in Peleliu.

Still, that didn’t stop that tiny humane part of him to worry about the new boot from Mobile, Alabama.

The reason why he had the urge to look after Sledge had nothing to do with Sledge’s soft brown eyes or Sledge’s soft smile. Or the way Sledge was always so polite with his words even when he was being teased. It surely got nothing to do with how Sledge didn’t cower from him whenever he got too close for it to be comfortable.

Those were _not_ the reasons at all.

The very reason why he chose to risk his ass to look after Eugene Sledge was because this southern belle shared the same first name with Roe.

It’s a pathetic excuse of a reason but that was it.

Roe was the closest thing of a friend he had, someone who wasn’t afraid to call out on his bullshit and still stay with him even when he fucked up. He thought that if he looked after Sledge, kept him safe from any harm, maybe someone up there would take pity on him and protect Eugene Roe. Lord knew that pale Cajun needed all the protection from the way he so casually talked about his impending death.

What he didn’t expect was for Sledge to look out for him too.

Maybe Sledge felt indebted with how he looked out for him; the chiding for taking of his shoe, the canned food, the smoke to make Sledge calm down.

But _it had happened_.

Sledge had risked his life on that airfield to get to him even with bullets flying past them, even when they were being shelled; this boot from Mobile, Alabama had made his way to Snafu Shelton and truthfully he was surprised when he saw Sledge kneeling next to him; making sure he was okay to move before Sledge dragged his ass up by his arm while yelling, _You’re okay! Let’s go!_

No one in their right mind would stop and come back to save Snafu Shelton but Sledge did. That in itself made him feel curious about Sledge; and not just the humane side of him, but the other side of him too, the one that thirsted for blood and gore and death. They were intrigued by this soft looking boy with the soft smile and bright hair and polite speech.

He had taken to observe Sledge from the upper floor of the blown up building, looking at this boy with the auburn hair and brown eyes writing in his Bible. The urge to protect Sledge intensified when he heard Sledge talked to Skipper, his voice trembled;

_I have never been more scared of my entire life._

What started as him looking out for Sledge in hope that somehow Roe got the best bit of having his ass safe over in Europe had turned into him genuinely wanting to take care of this Southern boy. And as much as he wanted to fight the urge, as much as he wanted to forget that Sledge had saved him; his conscience wouldn’t let it go.

Even the dark part of him was willing to take care of this boy, wanting to shield his innocence, wanting to protect his humanity, wanting to keep his soul whole. And he would do anything, everything just to take care of Eugene Sledge because for him, Sledge was the one thing that worth dying for in this war.

“What are you doing?”

Sledge softly murmured, shaking him out of his reverie and he blinked his eyes slowly because in this light Sledge looked ethereal, with his auburn hair gleaming so brightly in the sun, like Sledge was the light that guided him home after a long night of darkness.

He grinned widely at Sledge who in turned narrowed his eyes suspiciously at him.

“Watchin’ you sleep. You look like a sleepin’ beauty there, Sledgehammer,” he drawled, looking at Sledge with his wide eyes and his grin broadened when Sledge huffed a soft laugh.

“Creep,” Sledge said, his tone fond as he took a deep breath and closed his eyes again.

He looked down at his words on the paper, felt the heavy feeling returning when he mentally counted that it had been 5 months since Roe’s last letter.

He didn’t know if Roe was still alive or if he was already dead and he didn’t know if he would be posting this letter to Roe, but he had to tell someone about what he was feeling.

The sound of Sledge’s soft snore masked the soft glide of the pencil on the paper as he continued writing.

_I’ve found something precious and I want to take it with me home. Keep it safe from everything even though I know I will taint it._

_But I want to keep it close to me, Roe._

_That’s not a crime is it?_

_– Snafu Shelton._

*

**Nov, 1944.**

_Merriell,_

_I’m sorry I didn’t write to you sooner. Things have been hectic since our jump into Normandy. We’ve lost a lot of good men and some of them didn’t even get to jump out from their planes. I was glad my chute was working properly and I was glad I didn’t hesitate to jump because there was no time for hesitation when my plane was being shot at._

_I am glad to be alive._

_It’s been 4 months since our jump and we are now in Holland. It’s a beautiful country. Lots of wide fields and lush greenery. Nothing like Louisiana. But the war turns every small town into something ugly. Destruction, death and decayed bodies lining up the ground instead of pretty flowers._

_Just the other day, Easy Co. was fighting against the SS. I was waiting for them to scream for me so I could treat their wounds and grabbed them into safety._

_I think I’ve had more blood on my hands than my grandmère ever saw, Merr. This didn’t sit well with me for some reason. I know I should be used to it by now, used to seeing men with their gushing wounds and men with dead eyes._

_But I can’t seem to scrub the stench of the blood from my hands and my uniform and my mind. It always lingers._

_How are you, Merriell?_

_I got your letter when we were just crossing the borders. I have to say that I’m surprised you’ve found something shiny and didn’t immediately claim it. It’s very unlike you._

_I’m guessing this thing isn’t a thing after all. If my guess is correct then my advice to you is to keep this non-thing safe as if it is part of you. Keep it safe and maybe, when everything is over, when you are alive and about to go home, you can bring it with you._

_Take care of yourself always. God bless._

_Your friend,  
– Eugene Roe._

_PS: what is a Snafu? And why are you signing your name with it?  
PS: Nevermind. One of the men told me what it means. Listen here you slimeball, you’re not a snafu. You’re not a fucked up. You’re Merriell Shelton and I swear to God, if you let people use that name I will hang your ass by the Mississippi river._

*

**Jan, 1945**

He remembered he was only 7 years old when he visited the church for the first time.

His Mère had dressed him in white stiff shirt and long dark trousers that were too long for him, so she had to roll the cuffs up. His hair was combed and parted to the side and his grandmère had called him a handsome boy.

He remembered sitting on the wooden pew, pressed so close to his Mère that he could smell the perfume she wore; so thick that it had seeped into his clothes. He didn’t know why he had to come to the church instead of following Merriell to the deep bayou to play. But his Mère had insisted. She told him there was a famous priest visiting their small church and he would give sermon.

_We best not miss out on this, Eugene. Besides, you’re old enough now to understand them grown up talk._

They had to wait 20 minutes in the stifling humid heat of the church before the priest came out to greet them.

He remembered the priest as a big, hulking man and he had a loud, booming voice when he opened his mouth to speak.

The priest had talked about Hell. He told the faithful believers in his too loud voice that quivered with passion, _“Hell is a bottomless pit where men are tormented with fire and brimstone raining down on them! A place of no rest! A place of where the fire is never quenched!”_

He remembered being scared of fire back then. He believed if he touched it, hell would singe his skin off.

But now, sitting on the snowy ground of the Ardennes forest, his idea of hell had changed.

Hell for him was white pristine snow that covered the ground of the forest, covering up his tracks that he got lost all the time. Hell for him was sitting out in the cold with no thick winter clothes to warm him. Hell for him was treating the wounded men with not enough medical supplies. Hell for him was watching his comrades getting gangrene and frostbites on the toes and fingers that fell off and looking on helplessly because he couldn’t _do anything._

Hell for him was listening to the men scream for him to come help only for his body to lock itself down because he was exhausted of seeing wounds and having blood staining his fingers.

Hell for him was watching the church burning down from getting shelled in an air-raid, with Renee nowhere to be found.

Hell for him was not hot fire but the cold snow seeping into his skin and freezing his heart.

“Hey, Doc.”

He looked up to see Heffron ambling to him, his hands in his pockets as he slid into the foxhole easily.

“Heffron, everything okay?” He asked, worried that his musing prevented him from hearing someone calling for his help. But the ginger only gave him a small smile and produced a thin brown envelope from his pocket.

“You got mail,” Heffron said, shaking the envelope slightly before giving it to him.

He recognized the thin scrawly lettering of his name and a soft smile spread on his face.

He gently ripped the envelope opened, unfolded the letter and he immediately felt coarse sand stuck on his fingertips; something from The Pacific making its way to the cold forest.

_Roe,_

_Merry Christmas and I don’t know when will this letter arrive to you so Imma wish you a happy new year too._

_How’s life in the European continent? Where are you right now, Roe?_

_I’m still stuck in this goddamn island and it’s too fuckin hot that I can feel the sun burning the back of my skin off._

_Sledgehammer has been ignoring me whenever I whine about the weather but that doesn’t stop me from whining even more because we don’t have anything to do in this island but to polish our KA-BAR and rifles._

_Speaking of – have you ever looked at a redhead in the sun and went damn, that hair can guide me home because it’s so bright?_

_I’ve thought about this a lot and it’s driving me crazy and I want to punch my own face for having this kind of thought._

Roe snorted at the mental image of Merriell punching his own face and he remembered Heffron was sitting next to him when he heard the ginger asked a soft “What?”

_Eugene, this feeling I’m having, it feels so natural that it scares me so much. It scares the other part of me so much that I want to get off this damn island to kill Japs so the feeling will go away._

_But fuck, Roe, I don’t want it to go away._

_I’m so fucked and I don’t know what to do._

_I hope you’re doing okay, Eugene._

_I heard talks about your unit being stuck in some forest with no winter clothing. I really hope you’re doing okay. I really hope you’re not sick of treating the wounded men because they need you, Roe. You have healing hands. You heal people just like your grandmère. Do her proud._

_Reply to me as soon as you can because I need to know that you’re alive. You’re not allowed to be dead on my ass, you hear me, Roe? We gon survive this war and meet again. Maybe I will show you that precious **thing** I’ve been harping about. If **it** wants to come home with me that is._

_I’m not one to believe in God, but I pray that you’re always safe, Eugene._

_Take care.  
– ~~Snaf~~ Merriell Shelton._

Roe ran his thumb on the words “healing hands” and he thought of Renee and her brilliant smile, her heartbroken face and bloodied hands; her voice trembling when she told him that she never wanted to treat another wounded man again. It was what he had been feeling for the past months. He already had too much blood on his hands that the smell lingered, no matter how many times he scrubbed them until they were pink and raw. And he was not surprised by the shame that welled-up in his chest when he thought of those times that he sat huddled in his foxhole, ignoring the distressed call of the men because he was _so sick_ of blood, and wounds, and snow.

“You okay, Doc?”

He turned to look at the ginger and he remembered Heffron’s pulling him up from his foxhole and forcing him to move, urging him to help Harry. And in this weak sunlight of the Ardennes forest, where he swore that God was punishing him for putting him in this hell, he had found his salvation in the form of Edward Heffron from South Philly and he remembered Merriell’s words about a redhead guiding him home and he was sure, so sure that Heffron was the light that would guide him in his darkest time.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he answered, smiling reassuringly.

“Who’s the letter from?” Heffron asked, looking curiously at the letter in his hand.

He smoothed the thin paper and answered, “From an old friend. He’s in The Pacific. A Marine. A mortar man.”

For the first time in this war, he talked about Merriell Shelton from New Orleans, Louisiana. Of how they grew up together in the bayou. Of the shenanigans they got themselves into. Of how folks warned him about hanging around Merriell because he was dangerous. But he didn’t listen, because he knew Merriell better than them. He knew that Merriell looked out to those he cared even when he didn’t outrightly show it. That Merriell had a hard time expressing himself because he had been shunned too many times for being an anomaly. But he knew Merriell and his kind heart even when he so adamant of being mean.

The words flowed out gently from his mouth and in this quiet morning moment, huddled together in the foxhole, Heffron stayed and listened to him talk.

His heart beating calmly, and his body feeling warm with Heffron next to him.

A small taste of paradise.

*

**March, 1945.**

They were sunning on the beach when talk about home happened.

Burgie talked about Jewett, about the farmhouse he grew up in and about the mining job he had before he was enlisted. He talked about how back in Jewett he could see fields as far as the eyes could see. He talked about his Ma and his Pa, about his little brother, J.D. His tone was fond, bordering on longing.

They’d been away from home for too long.

Then Sledge had turned to him and asked “What’s New Orleans like, Shelton?”

He turned his face to look at Sledge, saw the wind as it ran its fingers in Sledge’s auburn hair and he felt something latched open and a surge of fondness for this boy from Mobile, Alabama tumbled out from his chest. He managed to stop his hand just in time from running his fingers in Sledge’s hair.

“Swampy,” he answered, trying to remember home and all his mind could conjure up were distorted images of his Moman and her hard face, of his sister and her wide eyes, and of Roe and his soft smile.

“Do you live by the bayou?” Burgie asked as he lighted up a smoke.

His eyes flitted to the ocean, how blue and mesmerizing the color looked like; the sound of the waves kept crashing the shores and he remembered the slow flowing Mississippi river so cold when he dipped his feet in them.

“Naw, we live in the town. But I went to the bayou a lot before I enlisted,” he told them, remembering the days where Roe followed him even when he yelled at Roe to go home. How they ended up fishing by the river, not afraid of the gators lazing around near them. Sometimes they stayed even after the sun had set, catching fireflies with their hands and keeping them in a jar.

“I bet it’s beautiful by the bayou,” Sledge said wistfully, puffing at his pipe. “I bet there’s a lot of big trees with long tendrils and rare birds. I bet it’s magical,” Sledge continued, watching him with a shy smile.

He looked back at Sledge, watched how the sunlight reflected in his brown eyes, turning them into soft amber. Everything about Sledge was so soft that sometime he was afraid he would break Sledge with just one careless touch.

With longing in his voice that surprised even him, he answered, “Yea, water runs with old magic there. It’s mesmerizing at night but personally, I love it when the sun just about to set. Everything is bathed in orange and the sunlight streams through the trees.” He looked at Sledge with the sun in his eyes and there was something vicious trying to crawl out from his chest, about to jump from his throat unto his tongue. “You’ll love it there, Eugene,” he said, realizing belatedly that his voice had turned soft and his eyes were locked in with Sledge.

“Yeah?” Sledge said, gave him an equally soft smile that did something to his belly; a pleasant lurch that made him want to pin Eugene Sledge on the sand and kiss him until they were both breathless.

The soft moment was broken when Burgie cleared his throat loudly and he was instantly aware of how Leyden and De L’eau were looking at them; grinning too widely. Before Leyden could open his mouth to tease them, Burgie asked Leyden about his hometown.

He rubbed at his face and took a deep breath, willed his heart to stop hammering wildly. _Stupid._ He chided himself because they were surrounded by other Marines. They were still in a war. Soft feelings didn’t have any place in this ugly situation.

But he chanced a look at Sledge and his lips twisted into a smile when he saw Sledge was already looking at him; his pale face reddening slightly from being caught.

“You’re adorable, Sledge,” he teased, his smile turning into a grin so wide when Sledge pushed him down, a soft “Fuck off” was heard as he let out a bellowing laugh.

He couldn’t help but imagine Sledge in New Orleans, taking in the sight and the sound with his curious eyes. He couldn’t help but imagine Sledge sitting by the bayou, watching Mississippi river flowing lazily as the sun was about to set. He couldn’t help but imagine himself sitting next to Sledge as the sun set, their bodies pressed close as they forgot about everything and only existed in this moment.

But the thought of New Orleans and of bringing Sledge home with him had to be put on hold when Mackenzie ordered them to train with the new boots.

“We’re gonna be shipped to Okinawa soon. Best to stay alert and in shape!” Mackenzie had said, his overly enthusiastic tone grated on his nerves as he eyed the new boots that fumbled with the mortars.

They trained for days under the hot sun, they trained until their skin turned brown and their shirt stuck unto their back.

On the morning of the last day of March, when the clouds were obscuring the sun and the heat was bearable and they were having hot chow; Mackenzie entered the mess hall –telling them to _settle down_ – and he didn’t like the tick on Mackenzie’s jaw, he didn’t like the dread feeling crawling up his spine.

“Gear up! Tomorrow we will be in Okinawa! Japs army vow to never surrender and it’s our job to take them down!”

He heard the collective murmur of _fuck_ from the men and he looked at Sledge who looked like he had swallowed something bitter. He knew that going into some remote island was part of their duty, but he couldn’t help but feel tired. He wanted this war to be over now and from the way Sledge was gripping his spoon too hard, he knew that the redhead wanted it too.

But they were Marines; another day of combat and another day of losing some of their humanity were expected.

“We best prepare ourselves for tomorrow,” he said, his tone low, meant only for Sledge to hear but Leyden and Burgie got the wind of it, and had looked at him with determination on their faces, their mouth set in straight grim lines when they nodded at him.

“C’mon boys. Let’s win this war.”

*

**June, 1945.**

Okinawa was Cape Gloucester and Peleliu combined into one; blazing hot sun by day and pouring rain by night, muddy around the clock that he wore it like a second skin by the way it caked on his face and hair; sticky mud and shit clinging to his uniforms and poncho.

It didn’t help that the Japs didn’t show any sign of surrendering, even after the news of Hitler’s death arrived at them.

Hamm had asked Burgie if the war was over in this too hopeful tone that made Sledge hiss at him.

“The war’s not over just because he’s dead, Hamm. These fucking Nips don’t even care about Hitler. They want to rule the world and with Hitler’s dead, they don’t have to compete with anyone.”

Something like a heavy stone dropped in his stomach when he saw the twist of sneer on Sledge’s face. He didn’t like the raw anger in Sledge’s tone. He didn’t like the way Sledge’s soft eyes turned dark, didn’t like how he told Hamm to get used to seeing people being killed.

It didn’t sit well with him when Sledge’s innocence was being stripped bit by bit. It didn’t sit well with him to see how Sledge gritted his teeth because he was _so damn angry now_ , always ready to kill.

He admitted that part of it was his fault, when he had kneeled in the mud; trying to catch his breath while staring into the distance, trying to make sense of anything, seeing nothing while his mind was screaming _You’re gonna get killed. You’re gonna get killed. **YOU’RE GONNA GET KILLED!** _ when they were shelled by their own goddamn artillery.

He couldn’t break down now. If he broke down now, he would be dragging Sledge with him too. Because he had promised to protect Sledge, promised to never let Sledge lose his humanity. He had to keep these promises because Eugene Sledge was the only one goddamn good thing that ever mattered to him in this fucking war.

But he didn’t know how to do it when his own humane side was fraying rapidly around the edges as he turned more and more into a killing machine.

He didn’t know how to control that dark part of him anymore because it thirsted for more blood and destruction, as if being surrounded by decaying dead bodies and being painted with blood were not enough to quench the thirst.

“I’m so fucking tired of being on this fucking island,” Peck whined when they were getting rained on. He had been whining nonstop ever since they got there that it grated on his frayed nerves.

“We will die here, I know it. We will be stuck on this island and the Japs will get to us and we will die here,” Peck continued his whining but this time he sounded almost hysterical.

And he remembered Peleliu and the hysterical Marine that woke up half of the platoon from his loud screaming.

He turned around so fast that he heard Hamm’s surprised squeak.

“Listen here you fuckin’ draftee,” he hissed, fingers gripping Peck’s poncho tightly. “If you don’t shut the fuck up, I will fuckin kill you myself. You ain’t have to wait for the Nips to jump into your hole. I will stab your neck with my KA-BAR and watch you bleed and die if you don’t fuckin shut your fuckin trap now.” He pulled Peck up by his poncho, shook him like he was a doll; the anger in his chest blazing because he was tired of hearing his inner thoughts voiced out loud.

“Hey! Hey, Snaf? Let him go. C’mon, he ain’t worth it,” Burgie said to him, pried his fingers off of Peck’s poncho.

“Fucking psycho,” Peck muttered under his breath and in one swoop, he side-stepped Burgie and punched Peck squarely in his mouth and he was satisfied to see Peck’s split lips bubbling out blood.

And as if he was keeping track with the dark thoughts; Roe sent him a letter and with mud caking his fingers, he opened the envelope and read.

_Dear Merriell,_

_I can’t talk long. We are a bit preoccupied right now. But I have to tell you this –_

_Mankind is the worst creation that God has ever made._

_I’ve seen too much death and destruction throughout this war but nothing could have prepared me for this kind of horror that I have seen today in Landsberg._

_I don’t know how to describe to you the helpless feeling that weighs me down but I am consumed by blinding rage mingling with sympathy._

_What I’ve seen today made me realize that a human is capable of being cruel because he can. Even without logic reasoning for said cruelness, he will still go down that road._

_Merr, I pray and hope that you won’t lose whatever left of your humanity. That in times of distress, you will make the right decision to hold on to your compassion. I know it’s a lot to ask when we are still in this ongoing war. But for my sake, promise me._

_Regarding your shiny thing, take care of it with all of your heart. Keep it safe. Look out for it. Hold on to your humanity for him._

_Your friend always,  
– Eugene Roe._

He frowned at Roe’s cryptic letter and looked at the newspaper clipping attached with the letter. In black bold lettering, it said;

**AMERICANS SEIZE NAZI CAMP.**

The more he read the clipping, the more he felt nauseous and he couldn’t even imagine Roe witnessing the horror of this concentration camp and the tiny humane part of him latched on that feeling, his conscience telling him to not do anything reckless and dangerous.

Telling him to take care of Sledge.

But it wasn’t easy.

It wasn’t easy when Sledge’s heart was already filled with hatred. It wasn’t easy when Sledge received news from home about Deacon passing. And at that moment he felt useless. His tongue felt heavy as if he had never used it. He didn’t know what to say to make Sledge feel better.

So he stayed close, wishing that he could pull Sledge to him. Wishing that he could run his muddy fingers in Sledge’s auburn hair, telling him that Deacon was looking over him now, wanting him safe, wanting him to not let himself be consumed by hate.

But he stayed quiet instead, studied Sledge’s face and memorized every bump and freckle in his mind just in case he didn’t get to live another day to see it.

And it wasn’t easy to reign in Sledge’s anger when Leyden was hit. He stayed rooted to the spot as Sledge’s voice yelled for Leyden, for corpsman to help Leyden. He stayed rooted because Sledge’s voice was so broken and _he couldn’t do anything to fix it._

_“I hope we get to kill every last one of them.”_

It didn’t help when the dark part of him was rejoicing with Sledge’s changes. It didn’t help when he was too exhausted to hold on to his humanity. It didn’t help when the voice in his head kept telling him to fuck things up.

_Live up to your name, Snafu._

The last of his sanity broke when he started to lash out at Sledge. He heard his own voice shouting at the redhead; _FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU, SLEDGE! FUCK YOU!_

So much anger, so much hate, so much frustration. Sledge didn’t deserve any of it, but he wanted Sledge to feel what he felt because everything was just too much and unbearable and he wanted Sledge to understand that he wasn’t the only one tired of this rain, and the fucking shit stench, and the fucking muds clinging to the skin.

He didn’t mean for it to happen. He didn’t mean for Peck to lose it. He didn’t mean for Hamm to die.

But he fucked up.

Oh Lord, _he fucked up._

Hamm was dead because he fucked up and in this pouring rain with the water seeping into his skin and soaking his bones, he felt his blood run cold when he thought that could have been Sledge. That could have been Sledge lying dead in the mud with rivulets of blood coming out from his mouth; the light in his brown eyes went out.

And he knew Sledge knew what he was thinking, with the way Sledge’s eyes flitted to him, the anger was still apparent in his eyes, but there was the pity in them.

 _“You fucked up, Shelton,”_ they seemed to be saying. “ _You fucked up because you couldn’t hold it in. You fucked up because you are weak.”_

What hope did he have in order for him to keep his promises to look out for Sledge when he couldn’t even look out for himself because he was weak?

He knew Roe said he wasn’t a fucked up. He knew Roe would be upset, but this time he knew he was a snafu.

*

**August, 1945.**

The more they ventured into the island and passed the rocky hills, the more he lost whatever left of his humanity.

He was always in a constant state of tiredness now. His bones felt heavy and his skin felt too tight. He could feel his eyes getting puffier and Burgie had commented about the dark circles underneath them.

None of them looked any better.

Even Sledge looked tired now, the weight of seeing too many deaths had made his eyes sunken, made his face looked hollowed.

After the night of Hamm’s death, they didn’t talk to each other anymore. He couldn’t bear to see the pity in Sledge’s eyes and the shame still welled up in his chest whenever he thought about how he let himself break.

He thought if he stayed away, Sledge would ignore him, would forget that he was even there. He thought if he stayed away, he could pretend that he didn’t have whatever soft feelings for Sledge.

He mostly only succeeded in lying to himself because Sledge had saved him again when he had shot the Nips that snuck up behind him. He thought of Peleliu and he looked into Sledge’s eyes a bit too long and _merde_ , the feelings returned in full force and Sledge’s eyes were screaming _“You can’t get away from me, you asshole.”_ at him.

He thought he had lost Sledge to this war, he thought that he would never see the softness in Sledge’s eyes again, but something had happened in the hut. Even when Sledge said he didn’t find anything, he knew Sledge had found something. And he rejoiced even when he was exhausted when he saw Sledge getting angry when the other boots shot at the defenseless Nips soldier. He rejoiced because Sledge had found his humanity again, that Sledge had let go of his anger and his hatred and that in itself made the tight string in his chest tug loose; made him breathe easier.

“Sledge?” He said –approaching the redhead– his voice sounding tired even to his ears but he needed to do this, because Sledge looked so disheartened. He sat down next to him, knocked their shoulders together. “Eugene?” He tried again and Sledge looked at him, his lips tugged down like he was about to cry.

“He was just a damn kid,” Sledge murmured.

“I know,” he murmured back softly, wanting to reach out to hold Sledge’s shaking hand but there were people around them.

He knocked Sledge’s shoulder again with his own and Sledge moved his head slightly to acknowledge him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He had so many things to be sorry about; for yelling at Sledge, for Hamm’s death. But most of all he was sorry for the promises that he didn’t fulfill. He was sorry that he didn’t take care of Sledge as he should, and he had let Sledge went through the crack as him; bruised and beaten down out of their humanity.

After a while of silence, he thought he had to explain to Sledge about what he was sorry for, but then Sledge had leaned back a little and knocked their shoulders together and murmured a soft, “I know.”

Still, the words wanted to tumble out from his mouth even when he bit down his tongue. “It could have been you,” he whispered and Sledge turned to look at him, to look into his eyes and Sledge understood that he was thinking of the night that Hamm died.

“It could have been you, Eugene because I fucked up–”

“Hey, Merriell?” Sledge said, his tone hard and he realized that Sledge had called him by his first name. “I’m right here.” His tone softened somewhat after seeing the surprised look on his face.

He blinked slowly, felt his heart hammering wildly in his chest, felt the surge of love for this boy from Mobile, Alabama that had done almost everything to make sure his ass was okay, to make sure that he was alive.

“We are right here and we are fine, Shelton.”

He took a deep shuddering breath, looked into Sledge’s soft brown eyes and nodded.

They were fine. Broken, but they were fine together.

*

**Feb, 1946**

_What will you do now?_

He’d been hearing that question ask to him repeatedly for the past six months.

The war was over and they were finally going home after spending four months in Peking and another two months in San Diego.

They were now officially discharged from the Marines and every Marine was asking each other _that_ question.

_What would he do now?_

He looked at Sledge, looking out of the window at the passing sceneries as the train carried them home.

There was a longing in his chest. The kind that twisted the string a bit too tight, that made it hard for him to breathe whenever he looked at Sledge.

They had spent six months recuperating together in Peking. By recuperating, he meant that they got drunk on Chinese wine that tasted too sweet for his taste every night. He had learned how to play mahjong from the local bartender. How to count them. How to make the tiles match. He lost money but won a few too.

But he didn’t care about losing money since he had sold the Nips’ gold teeth to the pawn shop. The old Chinese man had given him a good rate. 35 bucks per ounce.

 _“Fucken Japs,”_ he had said in his thick accent as he cleaned the crusted blood off of the teeth, putting on his glasses to see whether the gold was authentic or fake.

In Peking, Sledge had stuck by him like glue. Always following him around like Sledge was afraid he would be lost in the big city.

Naturally, Burgie had followed behind quietly, always looking after them when they were about to do something stupid. A voice of reason when he was about to bet his money a little bit too much or when he had too much of the sweet chinese wine for one night.

Sometimes he let himself wander off the roads that other Marines didn’t want to venture. Sledge and Burgie still followed him like they were his shadow. Sometimes they ended up in a huge temple, with dragons on the wall and the stone lion guarding the door. Sledge had admired these stone Gods and mythical creatures. Had told him that he wished he had brought his sketch book so he could draw all of these.

Sometimes they arrived at a small village just outskirt of the city, where the smell wasn’t as powerful as in Peking. Where the flowing river reminded him of Mississippi. The local villagers were usually wary of them, but the small girls always greeted them with big smiles and enthusiastic waves. They seemed to like Sledge for some reason.

“It’s because of your red hair,” Burgie had informed them when one of the local girls shyly pinned a hibiscus in Sledge’s hair. “Red means good luck for the Chinese.”

Sledge had smiled proudly then, his soft brown eyes brightening up. “Hear that Shelton? I’m a walking good luck charm. If you want some of my luck, you should stick by me all the time,” Sledge said teasingly and he has scoffed.

But his stomach had been swooped down by millions of butterflies fluttering their tiny wings, making him flutter his eyelashes when Sledge grinned at him.

He _wanted_ that.

He wanted to always stick by Sledge. Not because he saw Sledge as his good luck charm, but because he couldn’t bear thinking of going home to New Orleans without Sledge following him.

He wanted to keep Sledge close because Sledge was his shiny thing; something precious that had come out of this ugly war. Something so rare that not even money or gold could make him want to part with Sledge.

But he knew that Sledge was too good for him, knew that Sledge had a good life waiting for him back in Mobile, Alabama.

He was just Snafu Shelton, a fucked up kid from New Orleans with just a few dimes to his name and a whole lot of hard demons to be dealt with.

He was a nobody compared to Sledge. Unworthy to have Eugene Sledge as his companion, as his lover, as his everything.

But those facts didn’t stop him from asking Sledge.

On Christmas night when the cold wind was howling outside the makeshift mess hall, when presents had been exchanged and opened and the sweet Chinese wine loosening their bodies, warming them up; he had snuggled closer to Sledge underneath the shared thick blanket.

Few times one of the boots commented about how close they were and if Sledge was giving him a handjob underneath the blanket.

Instead of being angry, he had flipped his finger to them; causing them to laugh out loud and making more lewd comments about how some of the pretty men should open their legs for the Marines tonight, seeing that it’s Christmas and all.

“Goodwill for all mankind!” Someone shouted.

Burgie had told them off then in his no nonsense tone that made the boots looked down guiltily.

“Fuckin boot probably never seen a pussy in his life before,” he had grumbled softly to Sledge when Burgie passed them the wine before leaving them alone.

Sledge had huffed out a laugh then, looking at him with glassy eyes, his face flushed from the wine and the tip of his nose reddening slightly from the cold.

“I’ve never kissed anyone before,” Sledge murmured, looking at him with that soft expression and he could feel blood roaring in his ears so suddenly.

But he just looked at Sledge then, one brow raising slightly, “Don’t tell me someone cute like you don’t have girls chasin’ you around, Sledgehammer.”

Sledge hummed in contentment, his bright eyes never leaving his face before he happily asked, “You think I’m cute?”

He made an annoyed sound with his tongue to stop himself from saying _yes_ then he nudged Sledge’s head with his chin.

“You lyin’ to me right when you said no girl ever chase you?”

“I’m not so good with girls. Not like Sid,” Sledge said, blinked his eyes slowly as if to dispel the sleepiness.

Few feet away from where they were sitting, some boots had started to punch each other and in the midst of the noises he heard Sledge’s voice.

“Tell me again about New Orleans.”

He took a deep breath, pulled Sledge closer by his shoulder and started to talk.

“You know how they say that New Orleans is infested with magic? That old magic flows in the Mississippi river? It’s true. There are people who practiced magic. Good people, bad people. Depending on what kind of magic they do,” he started talking and Sledge listened to him with earnest interest.

“The city is colorful. You can see buildings painted in every colors imaginable. Sometimes if you’re lucky, you can slip into the club where they be playin blues and jazz all night. Dancin’ too if you like.”

“Do you dance?” Sledge asked.

“Tried it once but I got two left feet that I keep stepping on my date’s shoes,” he answered and Sledge laughed.

It was a good laugh, the kind that made Sledge’s eyes crinkle, the kind that made his heart warm.

“But I think you will definitely love the bayou,” he continued when Sledge nudged his knee with his fingers. “The river flowing steadily and the wild birds flying around. You can take the boat to cruise down the river. But there are big gators there to bite your pale ass. So be careful.”

He blinked softly, knocked his chin against Sledge’s head and his voice turned soft without him meaning to.

“You’ll love the sunset on the bayou, Eugene. The skies a mix of orange and blue. The world just stops a while, all your worries just go away. Nothing else matters. It’s just you and the sun.”

He leaned his face down to look at Sledge and what he saw made his heart beat wildly against his chest.

Sledge’s eyes were closed and he had a small smile on his face like he was imagining what the sunset at the bayou looked like and something in his caught and released simultaneously and in a soft voice, he asked, “Do you wanna come home with me to New Orleans, Eugene?”

Sledge opened his eyes then, and in this shitty fluorescent light, they had turned amber and he had never seen anything as beautiful as Eugene Sledge.

With an equally soft voice, like it was somewhat blasphemy to talk out loud in this soft moment, –despite the rowdy voices of the drunk Marines– Sledge answered, “Yes.”

And it felt natural to lean down and brush his dry lips against Sledge’s soft lips; a brief soft press of kiss that made Sledge close his eyes again and leaned forward for more contact.

“Merriell,” Sledge murmured, his shoulders sagging in surrender.

He hummed at the back of his throat to tell Sledge that he was there, brushed their lips together again and he tasted the sweet wine on the tip of Sledge’s tongue.

“Merry Christmas, Eugene,” he whispered as he pulled his face back despite Sledge’s quiet protest.

They were in the mess hall after all, they could have been caught by the other Marines and he wouldn’t want to risk Sledge’s life like that.

“Promise to take me to New Orleans?” Sledge murmured sleepily and he smiled at the redhead and nodded his head.

But that was months ago.

Where they were still away from home, when he had convinced himself that he would treat Sledge good. Where he had believed that Sledge would be perfect living in New Orleans with him.

But now he wasn’t sure.

That dark part of him had whispered that he was nothing but a snafu, a fucked up that was waiting to happen. That one day, he would hurt Sledge, make Sledge unhappy because he had so many demons that he didn’t want to deal with.

That dark part had reasoned with him that Sledge was drunk when he had agreed to follow him home to New Orleans. Had reasoned with him that Sledge didn’t love him like that. Had reasoned with him that Sledge didn’t treat him differently the next day or the day after or when they were back on Stateside.

That he had built his fantasy on a drunk night that even Sledge didn’t remember.

He pressed the thin letter in his breast pocket, heard it crinkled softly when it made contact with his palm.

He had written to Roe about him coming home when he was in San Diego. He had asked Roe to come and get him from the train station. He had _bragged_ that maybe Roe would finally get to meet with his shiny thing.

He was stupid.

Roe had replied back, telling him about the job he had acquired at the city; a construction work.

_It was as if I have never left New Orleans because when I came back, everything is the same. It made me feel disgruntled for a few months because I wasn’t used to waking up in a soft bed, with Mère making hot coffee for me._

_I wasn’t used of going out to the city freely without having to be afraid of getting shelled or shot._

_I wasn’t used of seeing my hands so clean._

If someone like Roe, someone so pure like Roe had felt disgruntled by the sudden changes, then what would it be for him then? What would the post-war world be like for someone with a lot of demon as him?

_I’m glad that you’re finally coming home, Merriell. And I would be glad to get you from the train station and I hope I could meet with your precious shiny thing finally._

_Take care always._

_Your friend,  
– Eugene Roe._

By the time the train had left Jewett, by the time he had said goodbye to Burgie and felt the sadness settled deep in his chest, he had made up his mind that he won’t be taking Sledge with him to New Orleans.

He had made up his mind that Sledge deserved someone better than him. A girl from a respected family, someone who looked prim and proper, someone who would look good in his arms when they go to all of the parties in Mobile, Alabama.

But Sledge had made it difficult for him to let go; asking him about New Orleans over and over again as if he really did want to come home with him and his eyes were shining so bright as he bounced on his seat, restless to get home.

When the train stopped in New Orleans, when the station master shouted, “New Orleans. Home of the Delta Blues.” Sledge was sleeping soundly and for a moment he wanted to wake Sledge up. He wanted to say, “We are home.” to Sledge.

But he hesitated and the demon in his head told him to go.

_Leave him, Snafu. He has no use of you._

With heavy heart, with heavy steps; he left Eugene Sledge alone on the train, he left his heart with the boy from Mobile, Alabama; disappearing into the humid night of New Orleans.

**June, 1946.**

He got a job at the lumberyard.

The pay was minimal but it covered his shabby apartment rent and he got hot food on the table. His Moman told him that he was welcomed to come home anytime he felt like it; but he just smiled at her and pressed his lips on her face.

He didn’t want to live in his childhood home anymore. He couldn’t bear letting his family know about his recurring nightmare; the way he sometimes screamed too loud that his next door neighbor had thumped the thin wall and told him to shut the fuck up.

He led a simple life in New Orleans; went to work in the morning, came back to his sparse apartment in the evening.

Sometimes he went to the bar to drink; to forget about the war, to forget about Eugene Sledge. How his auburn hair had looked so bright even at night. How peaceful he looked while he was sleeping. How badly he wanted to lean down and kiss Sledge one last time before he left.

He didn’t usually let himself wallow in regret.

But tonight –sitting on the dock by the bayou, with the sun about to set in the horizon– he thought of Sledge. Of the fantasy that he had where Sledge was here sitting next to him, watching the sun about to set together. Of how he would hold Sledge’s hand in his and rubbed the soft flesh that had done terrible things in the war.

Of how he would tell Sledge that he loved him.

That he had loved him since Peleliu.

But Sledge was not here. It was only him and his beers.

“Merriell.”

He turned his head slightly and saw Roe standing behind him, hands in his trousers; a firm line around his mouth.

Roe gingerly sat next to him, sighing heavily as he looked at the slow flowing river.

Sometimes they hung out together; at the bar, at Roe’s childhood home. But most of the time Roe would visit to his shabby apartment to check up on him, to make sure that he ate, to make sure that he didn’t do anything stupid.

“How long are you gonna mope?” Roe’s soft voice shattered the silence.

He sipped his beer and shrugged his shoulder. “Ain’t nobody moping.”

“Bullshit. You’ve been moping since you got off that damn train, Shelton,” Roe countered, his voice raising slightly and he didn’t have to look at Roe’s face to see his disapproving frown.

He kept quiet, watched the horizon swallowing the sun; watched the orange skies turned purple and pink.

“He wouldn’t fit here,” he said, soft almost hesitant.

Roe sighed, grabbed one of the beers and twisted the cap off. “You don’t know that. You didn’t even give him a chance to come here.”

He gnawed at his bottom lip and tried to imagine Sledge in New Orleans, the sun reflected in his eyes, the sun bounced on his auburn hair.

_Perfect._

It scared him that Sledge would fit in too perfectly in New Orleans. It scared him because he knew he will fuck it up one way or another.

“Remember when you told me that Sledge is the light that guides you home?” Roe said, and something swooped in his stomach.

“What’s that got to do with anything, Roe?” He asked, too afraid to breathe, too afraid to move because his heart was about to jump out from his throat.

“He’s your home, Merr. You’ve been lost without him ever since you parted ways.”

He gulped down his hysterical laugh, wanted nothing more but to deny Roe’s words.

Only, it was true.

He had been living in daze with this heavy regret in his chest that plagued his dreams.

“I don’t know what to do. He– he probably hates me for leaving,” he said, ran his thumb over the mouth of the beer.

“He probably does. But he will forgive you.”

He let out an anguished laugh, the kind that bubbled out from his chest in hot puff. “How do you even know he would forgive me? You don’t even know hi–”

“Because people usually forgive the person they love.”

He shook his head repeatedly, tried to stop the hope from blooming in his chest. “He doesn’t love me. Not _that_ way.”

Roe cuffed the back of his neck then, pulled him closer until their foreheads brushed against each other.

“Then go to Mobile and find out if he loves you like that or not. You won’t get the answer here. All that is here is regret and sorrow.”

He closed his eyes as Roe let him go and got up, brushing the back of his trousers noisily.

“Oh, you’re not working tomorrow right?”

He looked up to watch Roe and nodded his head.

“Good. You can send me to the train station,” Roe said, lighted up a cigarette and smiled at him. “Gonna go see Heffron in Philly.”

He smiled at Roe, a genuine smile that split his face and in a teasing drawl he said, “Well, who am I to stop you from going to see your lover boy.”

Roe ignored his teasing and said, “Just make sure to wear something nice tomorrow.”

“Why?” He asked but Roe was already moving, leaving him alone at the dock.

*

The next morning, when the train was about to depart, Roe hung at the door; nodded in satisfaction when he saw his clothes; white shirt and black trousers.

“A proper clothes for a for proper gentleman,” Roe said and he narrowed his eyes at Roe.

“Eugene Gilbert Roe! Don’t tell me you’re about to pull some stupid stunt like bringing Sledge here,” he yelled, looked around in hope of catching sight of Sledge’s auburn hair despite his protest.

Roe laughed at him. “Of course not! He’s not gonna come here! _You_ are going there! To Mobile, Alabama!”

He gaped at Roe’s flushed face, and felt annoyed that he let Roe pull one on him.

“You’re an asshole,” he drawled lazily, punched Roe’s shoulder lightly.

“I am a kind asshole,” Roe said, still smiling at him as he handed a train ticket. “One way ticket to Mobile, Alabama. Best get onboard this train, Merriell.”

He looked at the ticket in Roe’s hand and felt his stomach went swoop swoop swoop as his heart started to beat faster.

“C’mon Shelton. You did a lot of stupid things in your life. This is the one chance for you to redeem yourself,” Roe said, waving the ticket in his face before he snatched it with a quiet groan.

“I hate you,” he murmured, and Roe only smiled before pulling him into the train.

“Ah but you love me. I’m your best friend.” Roe said, thumping his shoulder lightly as they walked to their carriage.

“Have to find another best friend then. One who is not as nosy as you,” he drawled teasingly yet inside he felt thankful that he had a friend like Roe.

The rest of the train ride made him feel jittery. He smoked his fill of cigarettes for the day, yet his nerves were frizzling.

It didn’t help that Roe kept looking at him with amusement on his face.

Before long, the scenery changed.

From the flowing river of Mississippi to wide fields of greenery, a calming place that made his heart beat faster.

When the train stopped and the station master shouted, _“Mobile, Alabama!”_ , he sat rooted to his sit until Roe had to physically haul his ass up and almost threw him off the train.

“Gimme a minute,” he said, there was that tremble in his voice and he was sure he was about to go into his first battle in Cape Gloucester instead of going to the Sledge Estate. Hell, he probably would volunteer to go to Gloucester at this rate because being dead was so much better than having to look at Sledge’s eyes that filled with hatred for him.

“If I give you a minute then you will ask for another then this train will start movin’ and you will never step out from it,” Roe chided, narrowing his eyes at him.

He took a deep breath. He had to do this. He owed an explanation to Sledge. He owed a closure to himself. He could do this.

“Okay, I’m ready.”

Roe pulled him into a firm hug, whispered “Good luck, Merriell.”

He nodded and Roe squeezed his arm once before letting him go.

*

If he thought the train ride to Mobile was nerve-wrecking, the drive to the Sledge Estate almost made him had a heart attack.

 _“At least Dr. Sledge will be here to time my death,”_ he thought sardonically.

The cab pulled up to a wide path that slowly revealed a large and neat garden. A sole tall tree had been planted in the middle of the garden. There was a lawn table with two chairs near the tree, maybe to entertain guests for evening tea.

He could and couldn’t picture Sledge growing up in this home. Could, when he imagined young Sledge with his dog, Deacon happily running around the lawn to catch butterflies. Couldn’t, when he remembered Sledge’s angry eyes and broken spirit in the battles.

The cab stopped in front of the house, paid and got out.

His hands felt clammy as he ran his fingers in his hair; trying to appear put together.

He could bolt.

He could walk out because no one was around.

He could walk back to the train station and tell Roe that Sledge didn’t wanna see him.

_Don’t be a coward._

He gritted his teeth and stepped into the foyer and knocked on the door.

Waited.

Waited.

Waited.

“Shelton?”

He closed his eyes, licked his lips and took a shuddering breath before he turned around.

“Long time no see, Sledgehammer,” he breathed out, felt his breath caught in his throat when he looked at Eugene Sledge. He had forgotten how brilliant Sledge look in the sunlight, how his eyes turned into soft amber and his hair gleamed like a beacon.

Sledge seemed shocked to see him standing in his house in Mobile, Alabama.

Minutes passed and the silence was cloying.

“Sledge–,” he started to say something and maybe the sound of his voice had snapped Sledge out from his trance because Sledge smiled at him then, a slow hesitant smile that made his stomach lurched with a sick feeling.

“C’mon in,” Sledge said, gesturing into the house as he opened the door. “My parents are not home. They are at my brother’s, having lunch there.”

He took a while to step into Sledge’s home. Everything was fine China and polished furniture. Even in his best clothes, he felt shabby standing next to these richness.

Sledge looked at him then when they were in the sitting room, looking at him like he couldn’t believe he was here.

“Would you like,” Sledge cleared his throat and tried again, “Would you like some tea?”

He bit his lower lip and shook his head. “It’s fine. I already drank on the train.”

Lies.

He only smoked his pack of cigarettes until his mouth tasted of ashes. But he couldn’t drink anything then and he surely couldn’t drink anything now because he knew that it would come out again.

He felt too nervous to even sit still but Sledge’s gaze pinned him to his spot.

“Well, sit down then.” Sledge gestured to the sofa but both of them were still standing, looking at each other; greedily drinking in the sight of one another.

“I–Sledge–,” he stammered and Sledge was looking at him, his eyes bright with hopeful and he could see the dark skin underneath his eyes like he hadn’t been sleeping properly and he felt awful because him coming here only reminded Sledge of the war; of the pain it had caused, of the horror that followed them home.

It was mistake to be here. It was a mistake to see Sledge. It was a mistake to think that this would all work out somehow because it wouldn’t. It wouldn’t. It wouldn’t. _It wouldn’t._

“I gotta go,” he blurted out and before he could escape the sitting room, Sledge was on him, pinning him to the wall and he was sure the frames rattled from the force and the impact.

“Mr. Eugene?”

A sharp voice was heard from somewhere around the house and it made him stop breathing, afraid that someone found them in this compromising situation.

Sledge, eyes looking at him; his fingers gripping his bony wrist tightly, shouted back, “It’s nothing, Anna! I’m going to be in my room!”

Sledge pulled him hard by his wrist and he followed meekly, didn’t even protest when Sledge squeezed his wrist so hard that it stung.

Once when they were in Sledge’s room, the redhead once again pinned him against the wall.

Sledge’s face was so close to his that he could see the fleck of green in his brown eyes.

“Sledge,” he whispered, a whimper escaped his mouth when Sledge squeezed his wrist again.

“You left me,” Sledge hissed.

He closed his eyes because he didn’t want to see the hatred in Sledge’s eyes.

“You left me, Shelton. You left me all alone. You promised–,” Sledge stuttered, gulped down his emotion before he continued. “You promised to take me home to New Orleans. I woke up alone. I woke up fucking alone in the train, feeling like I’ve been abandoned. You left. And now you’re here and you want to leave again without saying anything!”

Eugene’s breath was warm on his face, every hiss of the words and every huff of his anger; he soaked everything in because he deserved every anger and wrath and frustration.

“You left me all alone, Shelton. I was all alone, not knowing what to do with my life.”

He licked his lips and looked into Sledge’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, so soft that Sledge moved in closer to hear him. “I’m sorry for leaving you alone. I thought that you wouldn’t want to go. I thought that–.”

Sledge moved in closer to him, pressing their chests together and he was reminded about that moment in Peking, how they had snuggled close together underneath the thick blanket. How he had leaned down to brush his lips so softly against Sledge’s. How he had made a promise to bring Sledge home to New Orleans.

“Tell me what did you think. You thought I won’t agree to follow you home? You thought that I would be miserable in New Orleans? You thought that one day when I’m bored with you, I will leave you? What did you think, Shelton?” Sledge barked at him and he felt the twist in his chest return.

“I thought that if you’re around me, you will be reminded of the ugly things about the war,” he answered meekly. “I thought that if you’re around me, you will not be happy because I know I will fuck things up with you, Eugene.”

“Merriell, you’re so stupid, you’re so stupid, stupid, _stupid_.”

Sledge pushed his whole body against his and slid his soft lips against his own, hard like he was punishing him. His blunt teeth pressing down on his lower lip and Sledge’s fingers grabbing his face in place as he nibbled and bit his lips.

Then Sledge slowed down, tilted his head to the left and kissed him gently, almost sweetly; soft press of lips against lips like Sledge was afraid that he would break.

Sledge tasted like coffee, like sugar sweet honey and he whined when Sledge sucked on his tongue.

By the time they pulled apart, they both were breathing hard; lips kissed swollen, eyes wide and bright. Sledge’s hand was a comfortable weight on his nape and his fingers were digging into Sledge’s forearms.

“Been wanting to do that again since that Christmas night,” Sledge pant warm breath on his cheek and he felt something caught and released in his chest and he was reminded by how much he had missed Sledge.

“You remember?” he whispered, wonderment in his tone and he hummed pleasantly when Sledge pressed their lips briefly.

“Of course I remember,” Sledge answered haughtily. “You’re my first kiss, Shelton. Of course I remember.”

“I thought you forgot,” he whispered, pulling Sledge closer to him. “I thought you forgot because you didn’t say anything, Sledge, ” he continued, his tone accusing and Sledge looked at him and nuzzled his face tenderly.

“Is that why you left me alone? Because you thought I’ve forgotten that you asked me to come home with you? Because you thought I was drunk?”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“I couldn’t say anything. We were never left alone, I couldn’t tell you how happy I am to follow you home.”

Sledge pressed his face at the crook of his neck and he wrapped his arm around Sledge’s shoulder; holding him closer.

“We are so stupid. We are so stupid and we have wasted four months being away from each other and _I hate you so much_. You made me wait all alone for 4 months. You let me think that you didn’t want me,” Sledge murmured into his neck and he dropped a kiss unto Sledge’s auburn hair.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered and Sledge leaned back to look at his face again, warm hand cupping his jaw and brushing the sharp line lightly.

Sledge’s eyes are soft shade of brown, his smile small yet genuine and then softly, gently, –as if he was parting a great secret– Sledge murmured “I love you.”

He pulled Sledge close to him again, kissed Sledge like the world would end tomorrow; desperation mingled with hope because there was no use of keeping this a secret any longer. He loved Eugene Sledge with all his heart. “I love you, Eugene. I love you. I love you,” he whispered, dotted Sledge’s soft skin with his words, leaving soft marks on his flesh.

“Ask me again,” Sledge commanded. “Ask me again, Merriell.”

He leaned forward to kiss Sledge again like he couldn’t have enough of Sledge’s kisses then with their mouth brushing gently against each other, he asked, “Do you wanna come home with me to New Orleans, Eugene? Come home and stay with me. Stay with me because you’re the only good thing that came out from this war. Come home and–.”

Sledge kissed him again, a brief press of lips, a nip to his cheek before he replied, “Yes. _Yes_. I would. _I will_. I will follow you everywhere, Merriell. _Everywhere_. You’re my home. As long as you don’t leave me alone again.”

He pulled Sledge into a tight hug, breathed in the smell of grass on Sledge’s shirt.

The regret in his chest had vanished, gone as soon as Sledge had touched him.

What’s left inside of that once hallowed place was now being filled with love and adoration and warmness that came from Sledge.

With a light heart, with Sledge wrapped snuggly in his arms, with the sun bouncing off Sledge’s auburn hair, reflecting the strands brilliantly; the light that guided him home, he whispered, “Ain’t never gonna leave you again, cher. I promise.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comment and kudos are very much appreciated!
> 
> find me on [webgottrash](webgottrash.tumblr.com)


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